


Cry Werewolf

by HenryMercury



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Episode 1 Rewrite, F/M, Human Scott McCall, Lacrosse, Werewolf Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-09
Updated: 2014-04-09
Packaged: 2018-01-18 18:42:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1438768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HenryMercury/pseuds/HenryMercury
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In hindsight, maybe it hadn’t been Stiles’ greatest ever idea to go searching for a body in the woods alone. To be fair, it also hadn’t been his worst.</p><p>[In which Stiles is the werewolf.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cry Werewolf

“So,” Stiles tells Scott casually, “I’m a werewolf.” They’re outside school waiting for the bell to ring, Scott sitting on a bench and Stiles pacing, trying to work out some of the nervous energy that generally accompanied confessing to one’s best friend that one has become a creature of the night. Not that he’s had a lot of prior experience.

Scott frowns for a full minute. “Is this like the time you convinced me you were psychic?” he asks, looking a little hurt.

“What?—no!” That had been a joke, a really terrible one that Scott shouldn’t have fallen for in the first place, let alone continued believing for a full week. Seriously. Thirteen-year-olds were supposed to know better than that. “For one thing, don’t you think that if I was trying to trick you I’d come up with something slightly more believable? I mean, I would _literally_ be crying wolf, here.”

“But I don’t get it. Why do you suddenly think you’re a werewolf?”

“You know that body they found in the woods? The one that’d been cut in half? Well, I was out looking for the other half, when all of a sudden—” Stiles asks.

“You went looking for a _dead body_?” Scott looks betrayed. “ _Without_ me?”

“Yeah, sorry dude, wasn’t sure you’d want to come. You kept talking about how you needed to get a good night’s rest before lacrosse tryouts today, plus your asthma’s been pretty bad this season. I promise next time I hear about something cool I’ll sneak over and grab you. _Anyway_ —as it happens you’re freaking lucky you weren’t there, cause while I was looking for the body I heard these weird growling noises, and something grabbed me—like, a huge animal of some sort—I couldn’t really see what but it had these creepy red eyes. And it _bit me_.”

“Holy crap, let me see!” Scott exclaims, and Stiles frantically hushes him before the other students milling around take any notice of them. Not that people noticing them has ever been a problem they’ve had to deal with before. Scott looks apologetic. “Let me see,” he repeats, at a stage-whisper.

“That’s the thing,” Stiles says. “I had this huge, bleeding bite mark last night, but now it’s completely disappeared.”

“That’s doesn’t really give me a reason to believe you.”

Stiles gets that that’s fair enough. He’s not sure he’d believe him either. Thankfully, the bite isn’t the only new thing he picked up in the woods.

“Sure, I know that. But there’s other stuff too—my senses are going _crazy_ , I can hear stuff that should be way too far away; I can see really super clearly way off into the distance; I can smell things I didn’t even know _had_ a smell.”

“Like what?”

“Like, uh... well, right now I can smell the piece of gum you’ve got in your pocket. Mint mojito, right?”

Scott shakes his head. “Stiles, I don’t have any mint mojito gum in my po—” he trails off as his he finds it. “How did you know that?”

“I _told_ you. I’m not lying! I think I’m actually a werewolf. Now, could you please be my best friend and help me stay calm about this, because right now I’m not doing so well with that.”

The bell goes, and they head inside along with the throng of other kids ready to start the new school year.

“I’ll try,” says Scott.

 

There’s a new girl in their class. Her name is Allison and Scott’s already completely smitten, despite the fact she doesn’t know he exists. Stiles has to admit that she _is_ very beautiful; tall with curly brown hair, china skin, fine features and pretty dimples. She arrives without a pen, and Jackson immediately volunteers to lend her one, throwing in a little hand-touching with the deal.

 

“But she’s so nice!” Scott moans as they’re putting their books away in their lockers. “What could she possibly see in Jackson?”

And isn’t _that_ a question Stiles has asked himself too many times before.

“She doesn’t know him yet. She doesn’t know anybody here yet. You just have to wait for the right opportunity.” Stiles knows about these things first-hand; pining after Lydia Martin for endless years has sort of made him an expert in the field of having to watch and wait while Jackson Whittemore takes out the girl of your dreams.

Speaking of which, Stiles hadn’t been sure whether the rumours of them breaking up over Christmas were true until now. To say he’s disappointed would be just about the single biggest lie he’s ever told, and he’s told a _lot_.

Scott mumbles something about him being right, and Stiles agrees, because of course he is.

 

When they get to lacrosse practice, coach Finstock shoves the goalie’s stick into Scott’s hands and wishes him luck. That luck, to nobody’s great surprise, runs out after no time at all. All it takes is one knock to the head and Scott’s stumbling sideways into the hard metal frame of the goal and going down pretty hard. He gets up again, so Stiles is fairly certain no lasting damage has been done, but Coach shouts Scott back off the field and tells him to hit the bench, and try not to brain himself in the process.

“Assuming you even have a brain,” he qualifies. “I really don’t want to know _what_ you’ve got shoved inside that skull, McCall.”

Then, probably because Stiles is the closest person at hand, Coach takes the goalie crosse and hands it to _him_.

Stiles is torn between being happy because he finally gets to _go on the field_ , and slightly terrified because _balls flying at his face_.

“Sure thing, coach,” he says and jogs over to the goal mouth.

The first ball whistles past his ear and into the back of the net, and Stiles barely stays upright as he scrambles to keep his head. His new wolfy hearing picks up more laughs and snickers than usual, which is just awesome. His hand clenches around the crosse, and he focuses more intently on the next ball to come at him. As it hurtles through the air, everything seems to slow down. It’s like something from an action movie, the world suddenly sliding into a slow-mo shot that’s either epic or clearly wishes it was. He reaches out to catch the ball as it practically falls into his net. It’s only as the surround sound kicks back in that he realises he’d been tuning any of it out.

He hears a muttered, _Woah_ from somebody. A _What the hell_ , from someone else.

When the next ball finds its way home into his gasp just as easily, the responses grow more incredulous. Honestly, Stiles is kind of incredulous about the whole thing too—not that he’s protesting.

“Go Stiles!” Scott says, with his usual best-friendly support, but also a tinge of awe that tells Stiles he may be starting to take the whole wolf tale more seriously.

“Who’s that guy?” Allison, the pretty new girl, asks up in the stands.

“I’m not sure.” It’s Lydia that responds. And it isn’t that Stiles didn’t _realise_ that she was unaware of his existence, just that knowing doesn’t make the confirmation any nicer. “I’ll be finding out, though,” she finishes, matter-of-factly.

“He’s really good,” says Allison.

“He is.” Lydia’s praise doesn’t sound as simple and sweet as Allison’s. She sounds suspicious, like she’s hatching a plan. A plan that _somehow_ _involves Stiles._

Up until this point he’d been wary of the whole lycanthropy thing—but at this moment, he doesn’t care about any of it. Lydia Martin wants to further investigate the fact of Stiles’ existence.

He catches every shot that comes at him, no matter how absurd the moves he pulls out are, how impossible they ought to be. Even Jackson’s ball is plucked effortlessly from the air.

Lydia and Allison both cheer.

Stiles doesn’t deny himself an exaggerated fist pump of victory.

 

“You have to come to Lydia’s party!” Scott’s whining filters through the tinny webcam mic. “Allison’s going to be there. How am I supposed to get a chance with her if I’m _not even there_?”

“There’s no rule that says you can’t go alone, you know,” Stiles replies. It’s not like it hadn’t been hard enough turning down an _express invitation_ from Lydia Martin, which is what he had received after that surreal lacrosse practice.

“Maybe not an official rule, but there are lots of reasons.”

“I’m sorry, okay?” he says, turning to face the screen and Scott’s puppy eyes head on. “God knows I want to be there. But I think you’ve seen enough evidence now to believe that this werewolf thing is _genuinely one hundred percent serious_. And tomorrow night is the full moon. I’ve seen enough werewolf movies and researched enough werewolf-related information to understand that going out on the full moon is probably the worst idea I could possibly have, and I’d rather not show that end up maiming all my friends. Even maiming Jackson would be undesirable, because then everyone would find out I’m some kind of monster.” No other reason. Obviously.

It doesn’t exactly _hurt_ that Lydia had only looked _more_ impressed with him when he’d told her he couldn’t make it, which he supposes makes sense given the kind of arrogant douche Jackson is. He doesn’t like being anything like Jackson, though. His plans for Lydia have never included treating her like crap. He’ll take her out somewhere to apologise, maybe, if she’d agree to that. Somewhere nice.

Scott’s quiet for a while, and Stiles is distracted mending his crosse, but when he looks up he discovers it’s because the Skype call has frozen.

 _Hey,_ Scott has typed. The sentence doesn’t finish, though; _It looks like—_

Stiles taps impatiently at the keyboard. “It looks like what,” he mumbles to himself. There’s an unfamiliar scent coming from... somewhere. Most likely his gym bag. He should really get to washing all the dirty gear that stuffed in there, now his senses are extra sensitive and all.

The call starts rolling again and Scott’s sentence completes itself at last. _It looks like there’s someone standing behind you_ , it says.

And then the dark blob in the back of Stiles’ camera frame takes a step towards him.

“ _Hoooooly shit,_ ”he exclaims, and tumbles off his desk chair into a heap, werewolf reflexes be damned.

There’s a snort of derision, and then someone’s grabbing him roughly by the collar and hauling him upright.

“Oh my god, oh my god,” he’s saying. “Whatever you want just take it, okay—”

“Shut up,” the intruder grits out, and drops Stiles.

Stiles gets a better look at him, then. The guy is tall and built, clean shaven with dark hair and outstanding cheekbones and wow, a fairly murderous glare. Stiles realises that the sight of him is actually somewhat familiar.

“Derek Hale?” he says, voice an embarrassing squeak (whatever, he’s being potentially murdered here).

The guy grunts, and he takes it as confirmation.

“Didn’t realise you were back in town,” Stiles says, overly conversational.

“Didn’t realise you were a werewolf,” Derek returns.

“How—wha—”

Stiles’ question is answered when Derek’s eyes flash a supernaturally bright blue.

“ _You’re_ a werewolf? Have to say I didn’t even see that coming. But thinking about it now, maybe I should have—”

Derek ignores him.

“The full moon is tomorrow night. Stay home if you value your life. And don’t play lacrosse again.”

Stiles has a lot of things to say in response to that. What comes out is,

“Have you been stalking me?”

Derek doesn’t deny it.

“Okay, well, for your information I have no plans to go out tomorrow night. I’m not _that_ much of a dumbass. But no lacrosse is off the table. I literally only _just_ made first line.” And it’s because of that that Lydia is entertaining the idea of associating with him after all these years of icy silence. So no; cutting out lacrosse is not an option.

When Derek fails to comprehend this fact, Stiles reiterates, a little more loudly.

“You’ll turn on the field, and everyone will see you,” Derek insists. “And once they know about _you_ , I’ll be screwed as well.”

“How do you know I’ll turn?” Stiles growls. “I haven’t done it yet!”

Derek’s eyebrows leap up at that.

“You sure?” he says.

Stiles turns and catches a glimpse of his reflection in the window. Even in the faint picture that swims across the glass he can clearly see bright amber in his eyes, the same kind of neon glow that Derek’s blue had been a moment earlier.

He looks down at his fingers, the clawed tips of which have torn right through the net of his freshly strung crosse.

“Don’t play,” Derek says shortly, and then he’s disappearing out the window. Such a weird dude, Stiles thinks to himself as he watches him go. Kind of an asshole, too.

Stiles still hasn’t agreed to do ask Derek’s asked—nor will he. All his life Stiles has solved problems, pieces together puzzles, overcome obstacles—by research, adderall and other methods. Becoming a werewolf is sort of a big problem to be solved—which only means that Stiles won’t rest until he’s mastered it. He can enlist Scott’s help, too.

“Oh my god,” Scott’s voice comes through his computer again. The screen is full of Scott’s stunned expression. Stiles watches as his best friend wheezes and takes a few long, deep puffs from his inhaler.

“Yeah, pretty much,” Stiles agrees.

**Author's Note:**

> While this AU could go on virtually forever (and I kind of want it to) I just don't have time to write absolutely everything. Maybe I will return with another instalment one day; who knows. (Or, if anybody else would like to write more, consider this a prompt and link me up so I can have a read!)


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